


for what makes a man if not desire

by highfalutin baby birb (fevered_dreams)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Clark Kent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Jealous Clark Kent, M/M, Omega Bruce Wayne, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, coming to terms with one’s own flaws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fevered_dreams/pseuds/highfalutin%20baby%20birb
Summary: Bruce and Clark hookup to make their lives a little bit easier, and Bruce quite likes their arrangement as is.Clark, on the other hand, wants more.(So much more.)





	for what makes a man if not desire

**Author's Note:**

> my first superbat story and of course it’s an ABO one haha! i hope it all turns out well!!

Clark loves Bruce like this.

He loves to watch Bruce writhing beneath him, bleary-eyes and breathless. He loves to feel Bruce shifts against the sheets in a futile attempt to get closer to Clark, all while mewling and begging for more. He doesn’t often get to see Bruce so open and vulnerable, so moments like these are a most decadent treat.

And Clark doesn’t intend to let a single taste escape him.

He lowers his head, lapping at Bruce’s clavicles with gusto. It tastes salty from the sweat, distinctively Bruce and absolutely delicious for it. Everything about Bruce is delicious.

Clark sinks in slightly deeper, and the way Bruce contracts around him — rhythmically with pure desire and heat — just about drives Clark crazy.

“Clark,” Bruce gusts, nearly breaching past the point of wanton whining. “Come on, give it to me.”

“I am,” Clark says gently. He presses his hips forward by the tiniest margin he can manage.

As expected, Bruce isn’t satisfied with that. “Give me _more_ ,” he insists, locking his legs tightly against Clark’s sides. His muscles flex with impressive effort, but, at the end of the day, he’s but a human in the face of a Kryptonian leaning over him.

“In a minute,” Clark whispers, voice dipped with heady, conditional promise.

Bruce whines low in his throat — truly whines, this time, all throat and pouted, parted lips — before making a valiant attempt to buck his hips up in order to force Clark’s cock deeper inside him.

Clark remains steadfast and unmoved by Bruce’s efforts. He quite enjoys being contrary when he can.

“Now, now,” Clark coos kindly against Bruce’s flushes and scarred skin, “haven’t you heard about good things coming to those who wait?”

“That applies to people who aren’t me,” Bruce argues. “Come on, don’t you want me? Don’t you want to fuck me?”

Clark growls from deep in his core before burying his face in dent of Bruce’s collar bones. He snuffles gruffly against Bruce’s chest, taking in Bruce’s luxurious scent as he rocks gently inside with so much restraint he should be rewarded.

Because he does. Clark wants to fuck Bruce like a starving dog who’s been given his first bone in weeks. He wants to be rough and wild, driven by pure desire and the primal urge to take and take whatever Bruce will give him, for he is greedy and unscrupulous when it comes to lovely, lovely Bruce.

Bruce keens impatiently. In turn, Clark holds him still without a single inch of give.

“Clark, please,” Bruce begs, and, finally, here comes the tears.

Clark’s been waiting for them.

“Clark,” Bruce repeats, and his chest heaves with want as tears roll down his face. “I need it, Clark. I need you to fuck me, please.”

Clark croons, almost silently at first before slowly increasing the intensity until the sound all but carries the entire room. Usually, Bruce despises it when Clark displays such blatant alpha mannerisms in front of him. But, like this, he doesn’t have the mind to care.

In fact, Clark likes to think Bruce actually enjoys Clark’s alpha tendencies when in the throes of heat. After all, there must be some meaning behind the tightened clench of Bruce’s delicious thighs and the shiver that wracks through his body at the sound of it.

“Just a little longer, Bruce,” Clark reassures sweetly. He presses a wet kiss against the hollow of Bruce’s collar bones. It tastes delicious. “Be patient for just a little bit longer, ok?”

If Clark were to say such a thing during almost any other situation, Bruce would pointedly chew him a new one with all the pretty and intelligent words at his disposal; asking Bruce Wayne and _Batman_ to just wait a bit longer is not usually tolerated outside extreme circumstances.

During his heat, however, Bruce can be pretty pliable and forgiving.

For example, instead of snapping at Clark for trying to play such crude games with him, Bruce simply moans as he lays prone, awaiting Clark’s next move with a half-lidded gaze and red-bitten lips.

And Clark simply adores Bruce when he’s like this — when he’s so open and vulnerable in front of Clark and only Clark. Because like this, Clark can pretend Bruce truly wants him here for him, as opposed to a willing and convenient fuck to help quell his heat.

“Clark,” Bruce groans. He begins shifting restlessly again, cheeks tear-stained and stunning, and Clark knows he can’t keep this up for much longer.

So, he finally relents.

“Shh, don’t worry. I’m right here,” Clark soothes.

Then he moves.

Currently, only the tip of his cock rests inside Bruce. That fact aggravates Bruce to no end, based on the futile shimmy of his hips. It’s an endearing sight that Clark doesn’t particularly want to end, but he also is but a man. A man can only hold himself back from a willing and ready object of his undying affections, he thinks pessimistically.

As a result, the smooth slide of his dick further inside Bruce sends them both spiraling into pleasure.

Bruce moans low and slow as Clark fully seats himself inside. Mindlessly, Bruce flexes his immobilized wrists for purchase until Clark finally takes mercy on him by releasing his hands.

Bruce wraps his arms around Clark’s neck with a pleased groan. He’s warm, flushed red from his heat, and the way his mouths at the crook of Clark’s neck is everything.

“Is it good?” Clark asks as he hastens his pace, burying himself as deeply inside Bruce as possible with each thrust because he could never get enough of this. Of Bruce.

Bruce nods unsteadily against Clark’s shoulder before responding. “Yeah, it’s so fucking good. You’re dick’s amazing.”

Clark chuckles ruefully. “I know. You’ve told me so before.”

Even with his heat, Bruce has the clarity of mind to scoff. “Don’t let it get to your head, or else I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Don’t worry. I know better than to annoy you.”

Which is true. Clark goes through great pains each day to avoid riling Bruce up too much. For as stoic and objective as he likes to paint himself, Bruce has one of the nastiest abilities to hold a grudge Clark has ever seen. When in a mood, Bruce can go weeks without uttering a single word to Clark, even while on the job, and he does so with ease.

Clark hates Bruce like that — ignoring him, abrupt and so far away.

So, Clark wills himself to settle down and get back to the task at hand; more specifically, he throws himself whole-heartedly back into fucking Bruce straight into his plush, spring-free mattress. It doesn’t make any sound as Clark snaps his hips forward, on account of all that expensive memory foam, giving Clark the opportunity to fully appreciate Bruce’s breathy moans.

Right now, caught up in hormones and heat, Bruce stays relatively quiet. Thankfully, Clark only has to strain his ears a bit before he can hear each and every little gasp and moan that escapes from Bruce’s mouth.

He shifts his position ever-so-slightly, but that small shift makes all the difference; Bruce suddenly groans from the throat, arching off the bed with so much force it even takes Clark with it for a moment.

“Fuck yes, right there,” Bruce gusts, head thrown back so far that the long expanse of his neck is all Clark can see. “More. Give me more. Harder.”

He sees and he stares. Bruce’s scent gland is virtually unnoticeable most of the time. He makes sure of that. Right now, however, it stands out deliciously against the tensed musculature of Bruce’s gorgeous neck, and Clark _wants_.

He wants to bite down. He wants to claim. He wants to mate and bond, and he wants it so bad his teeth ache.

Clark has never wanted anything else with this kind of veracity. In the beginning, it used to frighten him. As much as he adored and sometimes envied humans, he, deep-down, always thought himself a bit superior in certain aspects.

He used to think himself so much stronger than human alphas against omega hormones. After all, he never so much as batted an eye when come face-to-face with other omegas. He figured it was just another little thing that made him different than humans,

Then he met Bruce. He smelt Bruce, and he _wanted_.

But he wants Bruce far too much to seriously consider biting him now.

So, he only allows himself the briefest suckle on Bruce’s scent gland before making his way back to Bruce’s mouth for more kissing, to Bruce’s apparent delight.

In the end, neither of them last much longer than that. If he listens — which he always does — Clark can hear the exact moment Bruce’s orgasm starts to hit him. Without fail, Bruce lets out that tell-tale hitched gasp that always assails him when he gets close. In turn, Clark thrusts harder, aiming for that spot over and over again until Bruce spills, body shaking.

Clark especially loves Bruce when he comes. These are some of the few moments during which Bruce completely lets go, and it’s an absolute treat to watch him unravel beneath Clark without a single shred of hesitation or appraisal behind his eyes.

Honestly, Clark wishes Bruce would always look at him like that.

Unfortunately, the moment ends all too soon, as do all good things. After a few blissful seconds, Bruce’s orgasm finally begins to melt away from him, just in time for Clark to come. In its wake, they lay together, drenched in sweat and chests heaving. Slowly, Clark risks one last kiss to Bruce’s scent gland before the afterglow fades away entirely.

Bruce allows him a single dry kiss before wrenching his neck away.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” Clark whispers. “Let me get you some water. What would you like to eat?”

“The usual snacks in the mini-fridge are fine.”

“You sure you don’t want something hardier? Alfred tells me you like a certain kind of soup. I can try to get some for you,” Clark offers.

“You think you can make Mulligatawny soup?”

“Ok, maybe not, but I can probably whip up some chicken noodle soup, if you’s be ok that instead.”

“It’s fine. I don’t need you to do anything like that.”

The words themselves are innocuous enough, but Clark knows precisely what the cold timbre underlying them means.

‘Don’t act the doting, competent alpha with me. I don’t want it.’

‘I don’t need it.’

Clark swallows — hard. He hates when Bruce returns to his senses, even if he always, always adores Bruce.

“Alright,” he acquiesces, ambling over to the fridge. It’s impossible for him to now submit to Bruce’s wishes, apparently. “Do you want the peanut butter or chocolate raw and organic protein bar?”

“Chocolate.”

Clark tosses it over before grabbing a water bottle, which Bruce quickly downs. All the while, Clark watches vigilantly; even if Bruce won’t let Clark truly provide for him, it still gives Clark plenty of pleasure and peace-of-mind to just watch him eat and drink something Clark handed him.

“Are you planning on staying over tonight?” Bruce asks gruffly once he’s finished.

“Well, I — I don’t have any other plans tonight. I can stay if you want me to.”

“Thanks. You know how sporadic my heat can be.” Bruce pauses, strangely shy, but only for the briefest moment. “Sorry about taking up your weekend like this.”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind at all,” Clark says, and that’s the truth. If he could — if Bruce would let him — he’d spend every night and morning by Bruce’s side.

Except Bruce is nothing if not cautious.

Even now, he’s tense when Clark settles into bed beside him, and he only relaxes once he falls asleep.

Clark, on the other hand, insists on staying awake as long as possible. Moments like these are some of the only chances he gets to just stare at Bruce so unabashedly. Of course, he takes full advantage of such situations when they arise, spending stretches of time admiring the cut of Bruce’s chin, the smooth relaxation of his handsome face, and the long expanse of his neck.

For being so cautious, Clark thinks Bruce has made a serious mistake for keeping Clark so close when he’s so vulnerable. Though, he surely knows Clark would never risk doing anything drastic if the potential of having Bruce hate him weighs so heavily on the other end.

Because he must know just how much Clark loves him.

He’s cruel like that, Clark thinks.

But Clark really loves him like that.

* * *

Honestly, Bruce probably has the most heavily-regimented heat of anyone Clark knows.

Granted, Clark isn’t actually that familiar with many omegas. Most of the omegas he knows who don’t guard their status as tightly as the Declaration of Independence tend to steer clear of him and his admittedly powerful alpha pheromones. Which, he understands, even if it saddens him.

Bruce, on the other hand, does not have the same luxury of cautious avoidance to fall back on. Clark’s not even the only powerful alpha he comes into contact with on a regular basis; the life of a heroics tend to attract alphas, it seems.

So, Bruce pumps himself to the brim with suppressants and other dubious but highly-effective medications. He does so diligently without ever missing a beat, vicious whenever someone suggests he might benefit from cutting back a bit. Clark knows this well, for he’s been one of those poor fools, only to come face-to-face with a hefty chunk of kryptonite for his efforts.

“Don’t talk as if you understand what it’s like,” Bruce had hissed, knuckles white as he clutched that kryptonite in front of him as if it were his last life-line. “As if you know what it feels like.”

Reluctantly, Clark could only concede the matter as Bruce fled, chest tight and eyes burning at the edges.

Because he doesn’t know. He has no inkling for what it must feel like to be an omega — not any true understanding, at least. Sometimes Lois complains about it, though. She laments the cruel fate of omegas who still struggle in the professional realm despite decades of equality laws, combined with pervasive and deep-rooted social discrimination designed solely to demean and undermine them with that signature frown of hers that strikes fear in the hearts of men and women alike.

“I have a friend who’s an omega, you know. She might just be the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, but she can’t get herself the recognition or position she deserves at work just because she’s an omega,” Lois tells him one night over drinks — coffee, that is — and stacks of rejected drafts.

Then, she leans in and whispers with bright red lips pursed. “I think she’s being sexually harassed by her manager, too. She won’t say as much outright, but the signs are all there. Still, she won’t leave that damn job because she’ll be hard-pressed to find a job with the same pay.”

Lois sighs, and Clark feels his throat tighten. “It must be hard, huh? For them.”

“Yeah,” Clark sighs. Eventually, they both turn back to their work, but all he can think about is Bruce and how beautiful he looks when his heat finally does come, begging for Clark’s dick inside him with pupils blown wide and slick dripping down his legs.

And Clark thinks it must be harder than either of them could possibly imagine.

* * *

The people do not know Bruce Wayne is an omega. His parents must have hidden it well. Or, perhaps they never even knew. Clark keeps forgetting at what age most human children begin presenting. On Krypton, they are simply born with it, and, more often than not, they are born alphas, according to Kara.

“So no one really cared about these kinds of things back home. Not the way they do here,” she had explained once as they flew through the skies together, gazing down at the Earth like one does a beloved ant colony. “Even our omegas were hardly treated with more than a bit more consideration. Here, though…”

She trails off awkwardly.

Clark finishes in her place. “It means everything here.”

“Yeah. It really does.”

So, Bruce’s insistence on hiding his status as an omega doesn’t surprise Clark in the slightest. As the very public heir to the Wayne fortune and current figurehead of the illustrious Wayne Enterprises, he can hardly afford to let his dirty little secret out. After all, his precious board members and shareholders would likely not think upon him highly as CEO if they found out.

Not to mention, Batman being an omega would be a hazard at best and a death knell at worst. There are plenty of black market products out there designed specifically to incapacitate omegas these days. Batman would hardly pose much of a threat if everyone knew he was an omega.

As a result, Bruce has suppressants — rows upon rows of different suppressants lined up in the Batcave, hidden away in his utility belt, and even an emergency supply hidden away in a false tooth. He takes them without fail at specific times of the day, and he rotates them by the day to maximize their effectiveness. Really, Bruce pulls no stops in burying away his secondary gender.

Clark even suspects Bruce would consider castrating himself if doing so would rid him of those tiresome hormones of his.

But he can’t. He lives with it still, and even the most sophisticated suppressant regimen can’t stave off a heat forever.

And when it comes, he turns to Clark.

Because Clark found out long ago. Apparently, his Kryptonian genes also give him a keen sense of smell. Usually, Clark can’t tell a difference when Bruce has his heat carefully tucked away.

Bruce’s heat, however, is an entirely different monster, and it smells so fucking _good_.

Still, Clark tried to hide it for awhile. He didn’t want to make Bruce feel awkward or to start avoiding Clark for it. First of all, that would make running the Justice League together even more difficult than usual. More importantly, Clark doesn’t want Bruce to leave him like that.

Bruce found out anyway.

“I trust you won’t tell anyone,” he had said, quiet and low, shrouded in darkness.

“Of course not,” Clark reassured.

“Then I suppose we might be able to work with this. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Of course not. How could Clark possibly mind getting the chance to sleep with Bruce? He’d raze an entire planet for the mere suggestion.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. He just has to wait for Bruce’s message, all while listening in for any sign of that tell-tale, quickened heartbeat Bruce gets when his heat approaches.

Tonight, past the crash of rain and crash of thunder, comes the quicken. Clark feels his own breath accelerate with it, and the only thing that calms him is the message he receives mere minutes later.

“Meet me in my bedroom ASAP,” it reads. It’s startlingly informal, considering the situation at hand, but Clark knows Bruce will look at him with wet eyes and parted lips when he arrives despite that.

So, he goes.

* * *

“Don’t get the carpet wet. Alfred just cleaned this wing,” Bruce says the moment he spots hovering Clark outside his window. He tosses a towel out, and Clark takes it without hesitation. The faster he can dry off, the sooner he can touch Bruce.

“Sorry. It’s raining in Metropolis too.”

Bruce acknowledges that with nothing more than a grunt. He’s always been a man of few words, but Clark suspects that the effort of keeping his heat at bay has him otherwise preoccupied.

Though Clark doesn’t know why Bruce insists on trying to stave away his heat in front of him. Obviously, Clark doesn’t particularly mind. Though, he supposes a person’s deep-set control freak tendencies don’t magically disappear when one’s heat rolls around.

That’s a shame. Clark would very much enjoy seeing Bruce loosen up more often, even if doing so could very well get him killed.

‘You’d never let anything bad happen to him,’ the traitorously honest part of Clark’s mind whispers. ‘You’d never even dream of it. If he wanted to, he could lay down Batman’s cowl forever, and he’d never have to worry about a single thing. You’d take care of it all.’

‘If you had your way, he’d never be Batman ever again.’

“Clark? Are you alright?”

Clark mentally shakes himself back into lucidity. “Sorry about that. Heard something strange back in Metropolis for a second,” he lies.

Bruce frowns. “Do you need to go back to deal with it?”

“No, it was just a stray cat.”

Bruce’s eyebrow lifts into an impressive arc, but he doesn’t question Clark further. Whether it’s because he knows Clark’s lying or he just doesn’t care either way, Clark can’t say. Honestly, he rarely knows exactly what Bruce is thinking outside of battle.

‘But you should,’ the cruel part of himself whispers. ‘You should know everything about him. All the better to take care of him, yes?’

‘No,’ Clark silently argues back. ‘God, no, I don’t — That’s not what this is about.’

He’s lying again.

Fortunately, Bruce minds less and less as time passes. Time passes, and his scent grows with the steady approach of his heat. Finally, Clark’s tortuous inner voice grows silent, and all he has to worry about now is pleasing Bruce.

Fortunately, he knows exactly how to please Bruce during his heat.

With a low growl, Bruce backs away onto his bed as he gestures Clark towards him with a single crook of his finger. It’s like the blind leading the blind, or a shepherd herding his flock to their favorite pasture, Clark thinks, for he can do nothing except follow Bruce, with or without invitation.

Gently, to avoid jostling Bruce too much, Clark falls onto the bed over him, and he basks in the warmth and pheromones swirling hauntingly around him.

“You smell so good, Bruce,” Clark finds himself saying before he can even think the words.

“Well, that’s exactly what omega pheromones are for, aren’t they? Seducing alphas and whatnot. Even the alien ones like you,” Bruce replies cynically.

Clark huffs, displeased. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What? You like the cologne I have on today?”

“Yeah. It’s nice and fresh. Not like the heavy ones you wear sometimes.”

Bruce mouths at Clark’s jaw for a spell before responding. “It’s the cologne you gave me a few weeks ago.”

Clark blinks, and his eyelashes flutter against Bruce’s shoulder. “Is it?”

“Are you telling me you don’t even recognize your own gift?”

Clark inhales slowly. Now that he’s mentioned it, it does smell like the bottle Clark gifted Bruce on Father’s Day.

“Sorry, just weren’t expecting you to actually wear it,” Clark confesses.

This time, Bruce is the one to huff hot and amused over Clark’s skin. “How are you gonna get anywhere in the journalism field when you’re so oblivious?”

“I have Lois for that.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.” Slowly, Bruce pulls away. He lays himself down against his plush sheets before beckoning Clark down once more. “A smart, dependable alpha is always great help, aren’t they?”

“Those things don’t matter to me. You know that,” Clark insists, and it’s just another one of his half-lies.

“I know. Those Kryptonian genes are really useful in more ways than one, huh?” Bruce says, voice surprisingly steady despite the slow glaze of his eyes.

“Yeah. Now relax, alright? I’m already here. You don’t need to put up an act in front of me.”

“If only it were that simple,” Bruce hums. Regardless, he does finally start to relax into the cushions underneath him as his scent completely fills the room. It settles thick and cloying around them, and Clark breathes it in as deeply as he can.

Tonight, Clark teases Bruce like he always loves to during his heats. More specifically, he licks and kisses all across Bruce’s skin, putting extra care and attention over some of Bruce’s nastier scars.

He lowers his head down to stop over a particularly gruesome one. It puckers pink with vengeance, jagged over all the right places. It must’ve been deep at one point — near-fatal, even, considering its placement atop Bruce’s chest. It’s a somewhat new one, too; last time Clark saw it, it was still in stitches.

Clark hates seeing Bruce with new scars. He loathes to think of all the situations Bruce puts himself in to get so deeply wounded in the first place, but he knows he can’t do anything to stop it. Bruce would rather prostrate himself to every force of Hell than give up Batman.

So, Clark settles for what he can do. He lays a string of sweet kisses over the entire expanse of it until Bruce grows too restless for such displays.

“Come on, you’re always so slow with this,” Bruce groans, throwing his arms over Clark’s in an attempt to spur him on.

“It’s called foreplay,” Clark argues playfully.

Bruce scoffs. “As if I need foreplay when I’m like this.”

“It’s not about you _needing_ it.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, but he smiles not unkindly. “You really are America’s golden boy, aren’t you?”

“I try.”

He certainly tries very hard to be good to Bruce, at the very least. Bruce used to complain to high heaven about the unnecessity of opening him up during his heat, but, after realizing that Clark was not about to give up fingering him anytime soon, he finally eased himself into accepting that, perhaps, Clark just enjoys teasing Bruce.

And does he enjoy teasing Bruce.

He gets three fingers inside, thanks to the slick, and he pumps and scissors them with vigor. All the while, Bruce demands for more as he shakes and shivers beneath Clark’s ministrations, but Clark doesn’t fold just yet. After all, what’s the fun in that? He’d much prefer Bruce melting into a mewling mess for a few — or many — more minutes to come.

Still, Bruce’s patience only extends so far.

“Clark, please,” Bruce moans, snapping his hips up to rut his dick against Clark’s. “You can’t do this to me all night.”

“Can’t I?” Clark challenges lightly.

“I’ll be pissed if you do.”

Knowing Bruce, he means it. But that’s fine. Clark, too, can only restrain himself for so long.

Soon enough, he has his dick lined up against Bruce’s sopping-slick entrance. Even without any additional lubricant, the slide is smooth and effortless, and Bruce makes no indication of being in pain despite Clark’s sizable girth.

Because, to be honest, Clark knows he’s… _well-endowed_ , even for an alpha. Nonetheless, Bruce has never even flinched at the sight of it. At first, Clark didn’t know how to feel about that.

‘Jealous. He felt jealous.’

Now, however, he kinda appreciates how easily Bruce takes him despite that. In fact, if Clark were the daring type, he might even go ahead and call Bruce something like a size queen, based on the way he keens as Clark’s cock stretches him full. Unfortunately, he’s never been particularly audacious when it comes to Bruce. Instead, he admires Bruce’s parted lips and blissed-out expression in silence as he slides home.

He holds it for some time — to let Bruce adjust, of course, and maybe also to tease him while he’s at it.

Of course, Bruce doesn’t let that lay for long.

“You’ve gotten bold over the past few months,” Bruce accuses with a sinful shimmy of his hips. Nevertheless, Clark remains steadfast. “Hard to believe you’re the same guy used to love fucking into me like a teenage boy getting a taste of his first crush.”

Clark almost bites his own lip bloody at how apt that description is. “I guess even all-American boys grow up sometimes.”

“That’s a shame. I kinda like that young and wild version of you,” Bruce hums.

“Yeah?” Clark asks. Then, carefully, he pushes in just until the tip of his dick rests against Bruce’s prostate. As expected, Bruce nearly goes wild with his attempts to get Clark to just _move_.

Except Clark refuses to budge. “You liked me better then than do you now?” he asks.

“Definitely. The old you was much nicer.”

Clark leans in close to ghost his tongue over Bruce’s nape before replying. “I seem to recall you specifically telling me to stop pampering you so much.”

“This is not what I meant,” Bruce growls. Too bad the effect gets lost in his following moan as Clark begins to draw back out of him at a maddening pace.

“It’s fine. Don’t think so hard, and just let me make you feel good,” Clark croons. Those are dangerous words to say to a man like Bruce, but the heat’s fully sunken in now. Now, Clark can get away with a few things.

As a result, he wastes no time in thoroughly teasing Bruce with each slow thrust. Bruce loves to get fucked hard until he can barely see straight, and, in general, Clark likes it, too. Tonight, though, he wants to play a little rough.

‘Because he can smell another alpha’s scent on Bruce — Oliver Queen’s scent, to be specific. Logically, he knows it’s probably just a coincidence. A result of having to team up together for the greater good, to each other’s undying chagrin. They probably got close by pure happenstance. Oliver’s pheromones littering Bruce’s skin surely means nothing.

Unfortunately, alpha instincts are not logical, and, if Bruce has taught him anything, it’s that Clark’s meaner than he thought.’

“Bruce, roll over,” Clark instructs roughly, pulling out of Bruce completely.

Bruce whines in response and refuses to budge an inch. Clark frowns before scooping an arm behind Bruce and manhandling him on his stomach.

“Clark, what — “

He silences Bruce with a swift snap of his hips, aiming straight for Bruce’s prostate, and Bruce all but howls in response.

“God, Clark, that’s it,” Bruce moans, words running together in a breathless mess.

“Yeah? Is that what you want, Bruce?” Clark asks sweetly.

Bruce mewls in response, but that’s not good enough now.

Without any warning, Clark firsts Bruce’s hair into a tight grip, pulling his head up by it. Throughout it all, he maintains a vicious pace. The bed rocks dangerously beneath them, but all Clark can focus on right now is Bruce and _Oliver_.

“Use your words, Bruce.”

“Yes, _yes_ , I want it. I want this. Shit, it feels so good.” Bruce’s words come out in a litany of moans and wanton gasps, so unreserved compared to his usual self.

Clark pushes in deeper to coax more of it out. He pushes as much as he can, and he reaps all the reward he can wring out of Bruce for as long as it lasts.

Bruce moans again, straining his neck in order to push his face into the crook of Clark’s shoulder. Reluctantly, Clark releases his grip; though, he must admit, he doesn’t exactly mind the feeling of Bruce’s lips against his neck.

“Clark, stop teasing,” Bruce growls.

“You sure? You seem to be enjoying it quite a bit.”

“I’d be enjoying it a lot more if you’d hurry up with it.”

Clark bites back a sigh, only to have it replaced by a guttural groan. As much as he enjoys rocking into Bruce almost painfully slow, he, too, can only hold on for so long.

Cautiously, he buries his fingers into Bruce’s hair again. Bruce gives no indication of being against it. Then, Clark tugs _hard_ before setting a grueling pace, and fuck is it good.

Ultimately, neither of them last much longer. Clark comes first — even though he hates coming first because he’s supposed to be the alpha here, making Bruce feel so, so good — but Bruce follows quickly afterwards, looking lovely.

Honestly, Bruce always looks lovely when he comes. The honesty streaking through his form captivates Clark, from the part of his lips and quiver of his legs, all the way down to the rhythmic clench and unclench of his hands around Clark’s forearms.

It’s a rare sight. A treat even. One Clark wishes he knew how to savor better.

Because the moment ends as soon as he gets the chance to bask in it. In its wake, they have a few scarce moments of tranquility before Bruce rouses back into what he refers to as ‘sanity’.

“Should I get you the peanut butter one this time?” Clark asks quietly when Bruce starts to shift away their sweaty heap.

Bruce shakes his head, and his hair tickles Clark’s chin. “No, it’s fine.”

Clark moves to get water, but Bruce stops him.

“I don’t need anything.”

“At least get some water in you,” Clark argues.

“I won’t die from one night without that 32-ounce bottle of water you always make me finish.”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Clark says, and he leaves no room for discussion.

Bruce rolls his eyes, but he folds. “Fine.”

In a flash, Clark retrieves the bottle before diligently watching to make sure Bruce drinks the whole thing, to Bruce’s consternation.

“Don’t get mad if I wake you up in the middle of the night because I have to pee,” Bruce grumbles.

“Do I ever?”

Bruce scoffs. “No, I guess not. You’re a star alpha, after all.”

They exchange few words after that. Silently, they rearrange themselves into bed together. Their toes barely touch, and shoulders press loosely together. From Bruce, even this much is a concession.

Still, Clark wishes Bruce would let him get closer.

**Author's Note:**

> well, it’s mostly smut so far, but I do have plans for this haha
> 
> please tell me what you think! I really hope the characterization is ok so far!!
> 
> [tumblr](https://highfalutinbabybirb.tumblr.com)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/highfalutinBaby)


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